


The Man with the Red Pants

by storiesinthedark



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, FuckYeahJohnlockFanfic Contest, Hook-Up, John "Three Continents" Watson, John's Red Pants, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:18:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesinthedark/pseuds/storiesinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's red pants are missing. The primary suspect, Sherlock Holmes. But, Sherlock didn't take them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man with the Red Pants

_Red cardigan. Pair of blue jeans. Blue striped jumper._

John mentally catalogs his clothes as he pulls them from the dryer and places them in the laundry basket.

_Another pair of jeans. Black and white jumper._

John pauses. _Where are they?_

The dryer is empty and all of his clothes are now in the laundry basket waiting to be folded.

A confused look crosses John’s face. He looks further into the machine and then gives a quick once-over to the laundry currently in the basket. He was sure he had put them into the machine, but they’re clearly missing: his red pants are missing.

“Sherlock! Sherlock bloody Holmes!” John calls as he takes the stairs to 221B two at a time.

“Yes,” comes the uninterested response.

“What do you think you’re getting at?” John’s eyes immediately come to rest on the dark-haired man lounging on the couch with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He has been lying in that position since John left him nearly an hour and a half ago to do his laundry. 

“Getting at?” Sherlock raises his eyebrows, yet his stare is still focused on the ceiling above him. 

“Yes, Sherlock. What are you trying to get at, stealing my clothes? Again, no less. First it was the jumper. Then it was the socks. What do you need them for anyway?”

Sherlock swings his legs from the arm of the couch, planting them lightly on the floor and easing into a sitting position. He turns his face towards John and looks him over. “I didn’t take them,” Sherlock states, making eye contact with John.

“Then who did? A faerie? I highly doubt a faerie managed to take my red pants, Sherlock!” He makes a hand gesture that can only be interpreted to mean ‘I’m not as stupid as I look’. 

“I’ll repeat myself since you didn’t quite get it the first time. I did not take your pants, John. The jumper, yes, and perhaps the socks, but why would I want your red pants?” His face remains unmoved. 

“To see if they have a different burning rate than a pair of regular white ones. Or as a fancy dish rag to clean up whatever experiment you’ve spilled. Or you could use them against me as blackmail the next time I bring a girl home.” He throws his hands in the air. “I don’t know. The possibilities I can come up with are endless!” 

Sherlock darts his eyes over to John and then stands, buttoning his suit jacket. “Well, I didn’t.” He crosses the sitting room, heading straight toward his own room and slamming the door shut behind him. 

“Fine! I’m going out,” John calls after him, grabbing his black jacket off the hook and rushing down the stairs as quickly as he can. 

On the walk just outside of 221B, John pauses and lets out a long sigh. He rubs a hand over his left eye. 

“What was that, Watson?” he mumbles to himself. 

He inhales pointedly and straightens himself, pulling his black jacket down to fit properly. “Right.” With his arms by his side like the soldier he once was, he makes a precise right face and heads toward the main artery of the city that crosses Baker Street. 

He’s not exactly sure where he’s going. God knows he can’t visit Sarah anymore. He wore out that welcome months ago when she realized that no matter how hard she tried, Sherlock Holmes would always come first. He could always visit Harry, or even the new girl he’s been trying to see for the last week, though Sherlock had made it a point to prevent him from seeing her every time he tried. 

Before he can contemplate the issue any further, a black Lincoln town car quietly pulls up beside him and the door opens. 

John stops in his tracks and turns toward the open door. He expects to hear Mycroft’s voice or at least Anthea’s, but when he doesn’t, John does what he assumes he is supposed to do. He climbs into the backseat of the car, pulling the door shut behind him, and finds himself seated next to Anthea who is busy typing away on her Blackberry. 

“Just brilliant,” John huffs. “Can’t Mycroft ever just phone me?” 

“No,” Anthea says, not looking up from the blackberry. 

“Well. Just bloody brilliant then,” John snaps, slouching into the seat. 

It’s only a matter of minutes before the car pulls up outside a rather impressive glass building and Anthea nods toward the car door. 

“He’s waiting for you. I wouldn’t make him wait too long,” she smirks, eyes still glued to the blackberry. 

“What? You’re not coming with me?” 

“No,” she chirps. “Other business.” 

John hesitates for a moment before he slides along the car’s leather interior and plants his feet once again on the pavement. He walks toward the front door, and it slides open immediately. 

“Ah. Doctor Watson. We’ve been expecting you,” the brunette receptionist behind the large wooden desk sings as he enters the lobby. It’s ornately decorated with replica Greek statues and crown moulding. _Government building. Probably where Mycroft’s office is_ , says the voice inside his head, a voice which sounds remarkably like Sherlock.

“Ah. Well. Where am I going then?” John approaches the woman and leans on the desk. 

She smiles up at him. “Mr. Holmes is waiting in his office. That’s room 2103. Take the elevator behind you and turn left once you reach the floor.” 

“Right. Thank you,” John grins, choking down a sarcastic comment. He turns swiftly and rings the elevator. 

John had never managed to find a love for Mycroft Holmes, and if John thought that today’s meeting was going to change that, he was sure to be mistaken. 

When the lift reaches the 21st floor, only stopping briefly on 5 floors prior to reaching this one much to John’s annoyance, John exits and turns left immediately, only to be greeted by an imposing wooden door with “Holmes” carved into it. He rolls his eyes as he pushes the door open and stands in a room with large glass window, two Victorian armchairs, and a drinks trolley parked next to another door that is cracked open. He approaches the trolley and picks up a bottle of Dalmore 62 Single Hiland Malt Scotch. His breath gets caught in his throat as he realizes what he’s holding in his hands. 

“Are you going to stand there gaping all afternoon or are you going to come into the office? I do have other meetings to attend.” Mycroft’s voice rings out from behind the semi-closed door. 

John replaces the bottle gingerly before pushing the door fully open to reveal Mycroft sitting behind his desk in a perfectly tailored double-breasted suit. “Well, I’m not the one who abducted a man for a secret meeting,” John scoffs at the entirely predictable situation. 

“Yes. Well, we can’t all be as easily charmed into cars by a pretty girl, now can we?” Mycroft croons. 

John bites his lip and grimaces. “Get on with it then. Why am I here? I’m not spying on your brother, so don’t bother to ask.” John moves to take a seat in a wooden desk chair on the other side of Mycroft’s desk. 

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Mycroft smirks. “I was, however, hoping you could be convinced to do some undercover research in the name of Her Majesty.” 

“What?” John’s brows furrow. “Why ask me? Sherlock is the one you should--”

“Yes, yes, I know. However, John, I do not think that this is the kind of work suited for my brother.” 

“Not suited for your brother. How can it not be suited for your brother?” 

“It involves a woman. A very beautiful woman, who may or may not be an undercover agent for the Iranian government.” 

“And you want me to figure out if she is and what she knows, right? Why me? You have your choice of agents who actually work for you.” 

Mycroft smirks before he reaches down into his desk drawer. 

“You’ll wear these,” he says, placing John’s red pants on his desk. John’s eyes widen, and he immediately begins to turn red.

“But, those are my--” 

“Yes. They have been altered and fitted with an small hidden camera to catch your interactions with Ms. Ashraf.” 

John sits back in his chair and closes his eyes for a moment. He opens them again, and they land on his red pants. He purses his lips and chuckles softly to himself. 

“So,” John begins. “You stole my red pants?” 

“Yes.” 

“And fitted them with high tech equipment?” 

“Yes.” 

“So that I can spy for you?” 

“In the simplest manner of speaking, yes. John, your reputation precedes you, and we have exhausted all other options.” 

“So, what? You plan on me being able to seduce her and reveal secrets at some point during our date?” 

“More or less. You will of course be wired during the earlier parts of your date; however, we anticipate things progressing in a specific manner and want to have all of our bases covered should she confess anything while you are... otherwise occupied.” 

“Right.” John rubs his hands over his face. “Do I have a choice in this matter?” 

“Not exactly.”

“Fine,” John sighs. “Fine. Just... give me the information and I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Wonderful.” Mycroft smiles, pushing the pants across the desk so they are within John’s reach. “You will also need this.” He places what appears to be a rose pin on the desk. “It’s a self-contained voice recorder that is to be worn on your shirt or jacket when out. And then there’s this.” He places a small piece of paper on the table with an address scrawled across is in large sweeping letters and a photograph of a woman with long black wavy hair and dark eyes in a long sleeved navy dress. “This is the bar she frequents most often. She usually arrives by eight every Thursday. And of course, a photo. Should make recognizing her fairly easy. Your only job is to probe her for information. She usually takes a man home with her every week, so use whatever means necessary to obtain the information. You will report back here tomorrow morning with your findings.” 

“And that’s that?” 

“Yes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with France and Portugal.” 

\----

He finds Sherlock back at Baker Street lying on the couch staring at the ceiling, wrapped in his silk bathrobe with his hair slightly damp. 

“So, Mycroft wants you for a case,” Sherlock states, eyes darting over toward John. 

“Yeah,” John shrugs. “Not exactly something I’m thrilled about.” 

Sherlock quirks a smile. 

“Fine, laugh all you want.” He scoffs and looks at his watch. 

Sherlock’s smile fades, and he wraps himself tighter into the blue robe and flops toward the sofa back. 

“Right. Case. Thanks.” John turns swiftly and takes the stairs to his room, leaving Sherlock sulking on the couch. 

\----

John doesn’t expect to learn much from Ms. Ashraf, contrary to what Mycroft seems to think. In fact, he’s hardly even sure that he’ll be able to persuade her into leaving the bar as it’s been so long since he’s been on a proper date without Sherlock interrupting. 

He finds a seat at the bar and looks around the pub briefly before turning to the bartender. 

“Just a pint, please.” He smiles wearily, places four pounds on the bar, and returns his attention to scanning the pub. 

He reaches behind him and grabs the pint, taking a brief gulp before replacing it on the bartop. He relaxes slightly just as he spots her entering the pub. She smiles and waves gently at the bartender as she makes her way over. The stool next to John’s is open, and she takes a seat. 

“Pint, please,” she sings and rests her forearms on the bar. She sighs. 

John turns back around to face the bartender. He picks up his pint off of the bar and takes another drink. 

“So,” he begins, turning slightly to see her. 

“So.” She smiles and turns her attention back to the bartender who has placed her own glass on the bar top. As she begins to pull her purse out, John places his hand on hers and stops her. 

“It’s on me.” He smiles and pays the bartender. “You...uh...from around here?” 

“I guess you could say that. I’m visiting a friend for an extended period of time.” She turns and smiles at him, flipping her long black hair over her right shoulder. 

“Ah. So, are you enjoying your time here then?” he smiles. 

“Mostly.” Her eyes travel up and down, taking in his whole appearance: the nicely pressed plaid shirt, the pressed jeans, and no sign of a wedding ring. She taps her foot on his chair. “What do you say to finishing that up and taking a trip to my place?” 

“Oh,” John says, a bit surprised. He didn’t think it would be that easy and it’s at that moment that something in his brain clicks over. Something isn’t right. This is faster than an average date would go even if he was just looking for a one-night stand. But he can’t abandon the mission yet. “Well, that sounds very lovely.” 

She smiles and takes another drink of her beer. 

\----

Twenty minutes later, John finds himself exiting a cab in front of a very lovely Victorian building and following a woman he suspects to be an Iranian spy up to her apartment. _Nothing good can come of this._

As he shuts the door behind them, she turns on him and pushes him back against the door, kissing him hard. When she finally pulls away a few minutes later, John is slightly breathless. He looks at her, his pupils blown slightly bigger than normal. _Shit._ “I didn’t catch your name,” he whispers. 

She leans down close to his ear. “It doesn’t matter. I know exactly who you are, Captain Watson.” She smirks and runs her tongue up John’s ear, pushing his hands and pinning them to the door. “It doesn’t take long to dupe a man who thinks he has you all figured out, especially when you’ve been told in advance who the government calls when they’re in a pinch.” 

“Ah. Right then. So, you know who I am. You would be?” 

“Not so fast,” She starts. “I know you’re bugged. Clothing. Off.” She looks him up and down, a hint of triumph in her eyes. 

“All of it?” 

“Yes. Everything.” 

“Plan on letting me go, so that I can... you know... take off my trousers.” 

She removes her hands from his wrists, and John quickly shucks his clothing, being careful to fold it all neatly, leaving the red pants on top. He sighs and gestures to himself. “Happy?” 

“Almost.” She moves over to his coat and removes the rose pin attached to his collar. She tosses it to the ground and crushes it beneath her heel. “Now it’ll do. Take a seat.” She gestures to a Victorian-looking armchair. 

John stares at her. She rolls her eyes. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be, Captain,” she smirks. 

He sighs and sits in the chair, while she retrieve a small length of rope from the nearby bookcase and begins binding his hands together. 

“Who are you?” 

“No one you need to know,” she says, and she places on final knot in the ropes around his hands and drops to her knees to begin work on his feet. 

“Fine. What is it you do then?” She looks up at him from her knees. She smirks. 

“Nothing that I would tell someone working for the government. How stupid do you think I am?” 

She stands up gracefully and quickly retrieves another length of rope from the bookcase and wraps it a few times tightly around John’s waist and the chair. 

“Worth a shot.” John laughs awkwardly. 

“Yes... well...” She turns and walks toward the kitchen, leaving John alone by the door. “Since you’ll be here awhile, care for a drink?” 

“Sure. Tea, if you have it,” John says, defeated. He struggles against the ropes, but stops upon realizing just how secure the knots are. 

“And don’t try to call anyone. I’ve already grabbed your phone,” she calls from the kitchen. 

“I guess it’s a good thing I followed then,” a voice John recognizes very well resonates to his right, the window open behind him. His eyes glance over at John and immediately dart back in front of him. John feels a blush come over his whole body. “Really, John?” 

“Not exactly how I planned on spending my evening,” John mumbles through gritted teeth. 

Sherlock smirks as he kneels down and pulls a small pocket knife from the inside of his coat. 

“Mr. Holmes, how lovely of you to join us!” she calls back. “To what do I owe the honor?” 

“I’m kidnapping my flatmate.” Sherlock glides the knife through the ropes and frees John easily. 

John looks at Sherlock, and Sherlock nods. John takes the hint, moving to his clothing and quickly pulling them back on. Sherlock reaches into his coat and pulls out John’s gun, pointing it at the kitchen entrance. 

“Nothing else?” 

“Nothing else of interest to me. Though I’m sure my brother will be quite interested to learn exactly how you’ve been extracting the information on the new nuclear plans for Britain.” 

“How did you know that?” She strolls toward an armed Sherlock and a fully-dressed John, her heels clicking against the hardwood floors. She slows and raises her hands in the air, looking them both over carefully. 

“Simple. You just told me.” He smirks and looks over to John, who is standing with his mouth slightly open. “Now, come along, John. Mycroft will clean up from here.” 

\----

The cab ride back to Baker Street is entirely silent with Sherlock staring out the window and John’s head down towards his feet. Once they arrive at Baker Street, Sherlock sweeps gracefully out of the cab and up the stairs to the flat, leaving John to pay the fare. 

John stands in the shower, head hanging down and hands against the wall. He lets the water wash over him, flushing his skin pink. He closes his eyes and inhales heavily, holding his breath for a moment. At the sound of the bathroom door opening, he exhales sharply and opens his eyes. 

“No,” he whispers to himself and closes his eyes. “This can’t be happening.” 

The shower curtain opens slightly, the cold air causing gooseflesh to appear on John’s back. 

“No,” John whispers to himself again. 

Arms slip around John’s waist and pull him back towards a warm body. 

“Sherlock,” John breathes out, “what are you doing? The door was locked for a reason. I... That was probably the most embarrassing moment...” 

Sherlock doesn’t respond, but presses a kiss to the back of John’s neck. 

“Just... what are you doing?” John presses his lips together, and he feels Sherlock’s hands trail down towards his length, growing steadily the closer Sherlock’s hand gets. He opens his eyes slightly, turning back to look at Sherlock. 

“What does it look like, John?” He wraps his hand around John and begins pulling lightly. 

John feels himself growing harder in Sherlock’s hand. He relaxes slightly and falls back against Sherlock, feeling Sherlock’s own hardness behind him. He breathes deeply. 

“Why are you doing this, Sherlock? I’ve already had a shite day. I--” John begins, but is cut off as Sherlock strokes him more firmly and sinks his teeth lightly into John’s shoulder. John groans as Sherlock kisses the spot and moves to kiss John’s neck and then nibble on his ear. He increases the pace of his hand, and John tenses, his breathing becoming heavy pants. 

Sherlock gives John a few more firm strokes before John tenses and falls back firmly against him, shuddering and spilling over Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock nuzzles his head into John’s neck, and John feels him smile. 

John closes his eyes and feels Sherlock unwind slowly his arms from his waist. The air shift around him, and he opens his eyes to find he is once again alone in the shower. 

With a towel around his waist, John makes his way to the stairs that lead to his room. The door to Sherlock’s room is shut, and John can see light peeking out from under the door. He sighs and shakes his head. 

_What the hell was that all about?_

He opens the door to his room, shutting it quietly behind him. As he approaches his bed, the flash of color catches his eye; a new pair of red pants with a note attached to them are lying on John’s blue duvet. 

_A new pair. To replace the pair that Mycroft ruined before I got to examine them properly. The twat. SH_

John picks up the note and examines the red pants lying on the bed, but they are solely ordinary red pants. 

_There will definitely need to be a conversation tomorrow._

He rolls his eyes and moves the pants to the top of his chest of drawers. John can’t help but smile as he climbs into bed, thinking of the absurdity of the day. 

_I think I’m falling for Sherlock Holmes_ , he rolls the thought around in his mind. _And this will surprise no one._

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the fuckyeahjohnlock fanfic red pants contest. I couldn't have done this without my wonderful betas, [ come_anyway ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/come_anyway/profile) and viewsofageek, who truly helped to transform this story in such a short period of time.


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